


Of Suds and Sugar

by FoxLight



Series: The Strawberry Shortcake Chronicles [4]
Category: Tales of Arcadia (Cartoons), Trollhunters - Daniel Kraus & Guillermo del Toro
Genre: Dating Advice, Euphemisms, F/M, Laundry, Mrs. Presgrit, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:47:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23874166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxLight/pseuds/FoxLight
Summary: Walter begins to fret over his relationship. Barbara washes those fears away.
Relationships: Barbara Lake/Walter Strickler | Stricklander
Series: The Strawberry Shortcake Chronicles [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/753342
Comments: 7
Kudos: 55





	Of Suds and Sugar

**Author's Note:**

> This work was inspired by Shannonsketches' piece ["Melt"](https://shannonsketches.tumblr.com/post/613989172797128704/melt).

She shows up on his doorstep, cold and drenched in springtime rain, and his brow cocks skyward as he ushers her inside.

“I had the grand idea to walk here from work,” she explains as she lingers over the rug in the entryway. “Ten minutes in, I heard thunder, and you can guess that I didn’t check the weather. Do you have a towel? I’m drip—ohh!” Having stepped unconsciously towards him, her foot loses its slippery grip, and she stumbles forward and into a side table. The glittering geode resting on the table's surface goes flying into the air, denting the wooden floor somewhere nearby, but he lunges to catch her, grunting as his arms wrap awkwardly around her soggy frame. 

“Well then,” he smiles, setting her upright, “you certainly know how to make an entrance, Ms. Lake.”

“Oh,” she puffs, “thanks. Uh-sorry about your rock.” They both look over to see that it is split in two. He thanks the stars that it wasn’t the one with an Antramonstrum locked inside. 

“It’s nothing of great value,” his deep voice intones as he kisses her hand, noting the goosebumps dotting her arm. “Would you like a shower? I’ll run your clothing to the laundry downstairs.”

“That would be great right now.” Her smile warms him in a way he’s still trying to understand, and he hazards a glance at her lips, soft and plump and...blue.

“Let’s get you sorted out,” he says as he tugs on the hand, “don’t worry about the droplets. I’ve a mop in the broom closet. I’ll see to them.”

A short stride has him flipping the light switch in his bathroom, walking past the claw-foot tub, he leads her to a stand-in shower.

“Mind the tap, it keeps trying to slip, but if you leave it just so,” he leans to cant the lever at an angle, “it’ll be plenty warm and you shouldn’t have an issue. I keep meaning to stop by the hardware store to pick up a replacement. I just haven’t found the time.”

“You know how to do plumbing stuff?”

“Yes, my-um father once worked in the sewers.” he can feel his expression contorting strangely. “I never learned anything complicated. It’s a rather simple fix. Here.” A hand reaches to pull the lever outward, and the water splashes down. There we are, It won’t take long to warm uhh-” his jaw drops, eyes going heavy as he’s met with the vision of her half-nude form. The top of her scrubs is suddenly in his hands, and she adds the next items one by one. 

“Didn’t expect to be doing this until later.” She jokes, biting her lip at his expression. When she loosens her hair, pure molten beauty, his legs nearly give way. 

“I’ll just go--” he pauses and clears his throat, “...put this in the wash. There’s a clean cloth on the err—already in there.” With all his might, he is trying _not_ to look down.

“Okay,” a flutter sparks though him as her lips brush his cheek, her quiet chuckle resonating through him like a bell. “Thanks Walt.”

Her voice is husky, sultry, even inviting, and his feet feel like they’re sticking to the floor as summons every ounce of will to walk out. 

_How,_ still mystifies him, he thinks as he spares a moment to mop and sweep the geode. It isn’t natural for him to want her in this way.The human form has always been mildly pleasing to the eye, but not like this, not enough to leave him gaping for hours at the very thought. He’s never considered himself a xenophile, but they’ve been intimate a few times now and, well, if it acts like a duck...

Sweat beads at the top of his brow when he enters the laundry downstairs, and his hands are like zombies as they open the lid to one of the washers. He loads the clothing, along with some of his own, trying desperately not to look at the bra, but then he catches it and holds it up, wondering whether this type of item can be washed in such a manner. 

“Oh, hello Walter, dearie.” He drops the bra before his eyes can even widen. It doesn’t fall into the basin, instead draping loosely across the lip of the machine like the trying thing it is. Suppressing a growl, he turns around. 

“Good evening, Mrs. Presgrit.”

“You shouldn’t put that in the washer, you know, dear.” She notes as she sets a small hamper on the counter nearby, “it’ll damage.”

“Oh,” he swallows against the desert that has become his throat. “Oh, will it?”

“Yes, wash it in the sink. They’re expensive.”

“Okay,” he sets it aside to blankly load the detergent.

The older woman edges closer and adjusts her glasses to eye him directly. “You look nervous.”

“Ah, no I’m—I’m quite fine, really.”

“Baking again, are we? She prods with a wink.

“Yes,” he smiles, knowing she’s caught on, ”I’m a little nervous I won’t get it right.”

“It’s normal to be nervous if things are getting more serious. A lot of young folks don’t expect it, but falling in love is a painful process. You torture yourself worrying about what your partner is thinking. It’s not unlike the cooking process. You have to make a mess and endure a little frustration and heat before you can enjoy the end result. ”

A green gaze turns to the woman, eyeing this creature who is objectively younger yet somehow more wise. Biting his lip, his shoulders deflate.

“I don’t know how to keep this up. I’ve-,” his expression contorts, attempting to be tactful, “I’ve never had anyone want to...stay for more than one dessert. I mean, believe me, I enjoy the baking,” he adds, self-consciously measuring out another cup of detergent. “I’m just worried about how this is all going to end. These things don’t last. Eventually, one of us is going to get burnt.”

It’s strangely honest for him, even if euphemistic, and he feels a sense of relief at the admission. 

“I think that’s enough soap, dear. You’ll have the whole complex in suds.” Mrs. Presgrit’s brows knit together as she takes the container away from him. “This really is bothering you, isn’t it?” He looks down as her wrinkled hand squeezes his. “Just make sure you warm the oven up before you pop anything in there, and change the menu a little bit every time.“ She jabs him lightly in the chest. “You won’t run into any problems.”

Part of him wants to laugh; the other genuinely wonders how to manage this long-term. There’s a cool familiarity to shrugging off ones attachments, to keeping alive by staying alone, and he’s not sure he wants to shake it. Isolation has never been a lonely endeavour. It’s never been a problem. Close bonds are like sandbags on an air balloon. But how could _she_ be dead weight? How could this warm, dynamic, curious creature be a burden?

“Your husband.” He shifts his weight to one leg, leaning against the machine as he settles into the conversation. “The two of you were together for what, half of a century? How did you two make it all these years? Surely he must have bored you after a time.”

“No, not once, dear. There were times we didn’t get along, but I don’t ever remember being bored. Charles loved me, you know. He still loves me, even with the Alzheimer’s. Every time I come to visit him he’s just smiling away.” Her eyes wrinkled with the memory. “We didn’t meet until I was twenty-eight. I’d been engaged to another man before that. It was quite the scandal.”

“You minx,” he accuses playfully. 

“I didn’t really think men could be affectionate before Charles. Half of them back then thought showing emotion was a sign of weakness. I guess it’s still that way now. Anyways,” she pats him on the shoulder, “it’s rare to find someone you can wholeheartedly connect to like that, but if you do you’ve got to hold onto it. It’s never going to happen again.”

“Now that, I believe.” Centuries, and he’s never done _this_. 

“You’ll be fine, dear. You’re a keeper.” The elderly woman’s wry smile comforts him, somehow.

Mirth tugs its way onto his lips. 

“Thank you, Mrs. Presgrit.” 

“I’d better get these towels in,” she heads back to her basket, “they’ve gone as sour as milk.”

“Oh no,” a jolt of panic rushes through him. Slamming the lid, he sets the washer going, and bolts. “I’ve got to pop out. I’ll be back down!” He shouts as he careens to the elevator. 

The smell of the detergent is slightly acrid and still lingering in his nose as he enters the apartment. Rushing to a clean hamper in his closet, he pulls a towel, and folds it so as not to look like a complete louse. When he enters the hallways, the door to the bathroom is still open, and it’s a familiarity that catches him off guard. That she trusts him with her body is a terrifying privilege, and entirely against anything he’s ever learned. 

“Walt?” Her small voice sounds when he finally strides into the bathroom. 

She is standing soggy-haired and dripping in the center of the shower, the water long turned off with the glass door closed to preserve her heat. 

“I couldn’t find a towel, her blurry form says from behind the distorted glass.”

“My apologies, I hadn’t yet restocked the cabinets. Here.” He takes the towel from beneath his arm. At first, he thinks to hand it to her, but then holds it open and steps forward. Red lashes flutter like wingtips as he wraps the cloth around her body, hands sliding up and down her arms to combat any shivers. “I ran into Mrs. Presgrit in the laundry. She’s quite a chat.”

The side of her lip cants upward and she steps forward to wrap her arms around his waist. 

“Oh,” she snorts, and presses her nose into his chest to take in his scent, “did she ask if we’d burnt the place down yet?”

“No,” his laugh is low, like fallen timber, “but she did recommend a few dishes to make in the future.”

“And what are those?” 

His fingers toy with the ridge of her spine. “That, my dear is a surprise.”

Her cheek replaces her nose, nuzzling against the blue fabric as she settles more fully against him, and for the first time that night his shoulders loosen, the tension of the day washed away by her ever-healing touch. 

They remain like that for a few minutes, breathing together, letting the day melt away from them both.

“I could hardly get through the meetings today,” a chaste kiss finds the top of her head, and he revels in the soft scent of his soaps there, “knowing we would be together this evening. It’s all I’ve thought about.”

“Sounds like I’m bad for business.”

“On the contrary,” he pulls back a little, smiling into her eyes, “I was very productive. It wouldn’t have done to have to stay late.”

He doesn’t mention the part where he’s cancelled three meetings with Otto, or where he’s sent Angor on random asides to keep the assassin distracted. Surely it’ll be to the benefit of all changeling kind to know that one can successfully enjoy life with humans. They’ll see his side of it, eventually. 

She dons her glasses and he chuckles as the steam overtakes them. Now, he thinks is the moment, where if he’s going to initiate anything, he ought to do so. 

The changeling spares her a timorous glance, one she can’t see for the fog in her lenses, but which is nonetheless filled with trepidation. He can both see and feel through the bond that she wants this, but...does she? Certainly, he’s a toy that she’ll eventually tire of. She was the one who’d initiated the relationship; it’s not as though she hasn’t done this with other partners. All of them, in some way, have failed to make the cut. What makes him any different? 

And say he does manage to get further than some--eventually, he’ll let her draw too close, and she’ll see the strings he’s wrapped around her hands in an attempt to puppeteer her. If she looks further, she’ll find that he has strings himself. A farce orchestrating a farce. It isn’t what she deserves. 

_Confidence, Strickler._ he goads himself. Perhaps there’s something to Mrs. Presgrit’s words. He has his tricks, his opportunistic nature, his inventive mind—things that have carried him through centuries. For tonight, at least, he can manage to entertain her appetites. 

“You know,” he intones, hand reaching to tug her glasses slightly down the ridge of her nose. “I think you may have missed a spot.”

Her face goes coy, the rims of her lenses accentuating the look. “Oh, really? And where is that?”

“Right here,” his lips taste her clavicle, and he speaks into her skin, “more than one spot, actually. Here.” The kiss sinks lower, to the rise of one breast, and she sighs. “And here,” He rises to brush his lips against her forehead. 

“What am I gonna do?” She shakes her head helplessly.

When he looks at her, he’s struck by those doe-like eyes, inflected with such a powerful blue that he wonders how it is that they aren’t glowing. A surge of desire strikes him, and the next thing he knows, he’s pouncing on her. Not violently, never with her, but it’s enough to see her squeaking in surprise at his veracity. The kiss is ravenous, powerful, and all consuming, his body pressing firmly into hers as he steps forward. The towel falls haphazardly to the ground as he backs her towards the shower, their lips never breaking apart. 

“God, yes,” she says, and wraps her arms around his neck, closing her eyes as he runs his fingers through her hair and over her hips. 

The clothing all but evaporates from his body, compliments of Barbara’s wild hands. Thinking past the cacophony of raging chemicals in his mind is difficult, but he manages to lift her over the lip of the tile, setting her glasses somewhere safe just before, and shuts the door. Through a moan, he reaches for the lever, positioning himself to shield her, and water comes cascading down his back, flattening his quiff to bedraggled strands as his mouth follows rivulets to her collarbone. 

Small noises of pleasure and adoration ooze from his throat like droplets of wax as his hand slides purposefully down her torso. Jade eyes open long enough to meet the oceans in hers and she bites her lip, humming low before pressing a small kiss of her own against his chest. Sliding his touch lower, he basks in her moans and mewls, and drops his head to nuzzle his nose against hers. 

Her rocks are gentle, like waves on a calm shore, and he moans when her tongue darts over his lips, gently parting them. The hands around his neck are running wildly through frosty gray sideburns and slick, dark strands, flitting with his ears and neck, until they follow the path of the water down his spine. Half of her touch swings to the front, clever fingers wrapping around his arousal, while the other squeezes at his buttocks, and he momentarily looses his own rhythm to groan into her lips.

Walter feels her wandering everywhere below, her caresses curious and gentle, and very, very knowledgeable, and when they drift to massage his perineum, his knees give way. An arm shoots out, and he braces it against the dark-tiled wall to avoid slamming her against it. Growling, he backs her gently against the tile, teeth scraping against her jawline, as his weight sinks against her. 

“Dirty tactics,” he rumbles, breath hot and heavy against her skin, “and here I expected to get clean.”

Barbara’s chuckle is low and inflected with a hiss as his free hand slides out from her lower regions to wander over a breast. 

“I needed an excuse to take another shower.” The words flutter out as her chest heaves. 

“ _That,_ I think we can arrange.” Dipping his head, his mouth replaces the hand, and she arches back with a long groan. He can feel the water streaming past his shoulders and onto her neck as it runs down along his lips, adding a slickness to his tongue that sends his name bouncing off the tiles with her breathy exhale.

Her grip on his lower member goes wild, as does does her hand, which begins to scratch signatures down his back. He’s sure that he’ll wake up with red streams down his skin in the, but they’re maul marks he’s proud to cover up. 

The next few minutes pass quietly as the sounds of their bodies and the water coalesce within the steaming room to drift into the dimly lit apartment. By the time he slips inside her, she is shuddering with the effort to reach her peak and he, too is on the verge. His eyes open, just long enough to watch her mouth form an “o”of pleasure as he slides in, revealing dents in her skin from where she's been biting at her lip. As warm and relaxed as she's become, there's no friction at all, and he flourishes with a sense of pride. Moving closer, he tries to brush his lips against hers, but fails, choking back his own muffled grunts as her muscles pulse against his manhood inside her. Mouth landing sloppily against her cheek, the slow gyrations of his hips, meant to ease her into their connection, become frantic. 

Though she hisses, she draws closer, wrapping a leg around his side as she counters his rocks with her own. Impatience finds a hand wandering down to please herself, but he beats her to the mark, an arm once again bracing the tile as he tries to accommodate the angle. The keening sounds she’s been making increase in both volume and tempo, and he can feel both through the bond and her shudders that it won’t be long. 

A familiar and urgent warmth begins to form in the pit of his stomach, and his breath runs shorter. Head lowering, he gasps into her neck, driving even faster into her body, and the increased pressure elicits a feral sound from his partner. He feels her tensing and when she moans again, her body goes completely rigid. A few staggering breaths, and she cries out into his ear, rocking through the last of the waves.

His own body continues, and he groans as he feels her throbbing around him. The pressure in his groin is searing now and its everything he can do to find release. Her sighs and moans are softer, but still hitching, and his hips are moving impossible fast. 

“Let go, Walter.” The words shiver into his ear, soft and husky. “Just let go.”

The compassion in her voice undoes him, and he calls out, his language going trollish, but she doesn’t know, and he wouldn’t have cared if she did. Teeth sinking instinctually into her shoulder, he chokes out a groan, and with one definitive thrust, finally surrenders. He keeps his eyes shut, knowing they are glowing, and shudders until the last of him is finally spent. 

The doctor’s lips are soft and pliant when his breathing finally slows and he knows that he can’t hide the emotion in his voice, even if the shower is covering for his face. 

“Oh Barbara, this...you,” his breath hitches, words failing him, “I’ve never known.”

It doesn’t quite make sense, but he doesn’t elaborate, instead pulling her closer as the water pours around them. She’s kissing his cheek, because she knows there’s salt, and tiny birds are fluttering in his heart. He won’t put a name to this feeling yet, the one that’s turning his entire existence sideways, but he’s aware that it is changing him. Perhaps this started out as a means to an end, but now it _is_ the end. It’ll be his downfall, he’s sure of it. 

Her hands are sifting through his hair, pushing it back from his eyes, and that blue gaze pierces through his thoughts. The devastation, the utter bafflement, and the absolute wonder he feels when those eyes are on him swirl desperately through his chest. Pulling her closer, his fingers dance along the small of her spine, he revelling in the soft tension that is the human form. With a kiss to her temple, he sighs. 

Long moments pass before he finally slips away and out of her. A soft grunt escapes her and he looks down to see the rest of his seed slipping away, vibrant against the dark floor. 

“Barbara?” he looks up to her, realizing with sudden clarity that the answer to his earlier anxieties is standing right in front of him. 

“Yes?”

“I don’t know how I might rate against former paramours. I want to make sure I’m doing enough. Are you enjoying this, the...baking? Overall, I mean.” It’s evident that she’s satisfied _now_ , but he has no idea how it compares to the endeavours of her past. 

A huff of amusement finds the air. “It’s always the people who are the best at something that question themselves the most. I’ve never had anyone put so much though into curating my experience in the kitchen, Walter. There haven’t been _that_ many people, but you’re kinda blowing everyone else off of the charts." 

His dark brows raise skyward, expression going smug. 

“What about you? Do you feel like you’re drowning in Dr. Lake?”

Grabbing a bar of soap, he begins to rub suds along her arm. “Not at all. I’m a keen swimmer, you know.” 

He's spreading small bubbles over both of them and running his hands through her hair when they both pause at the sound of a voice:

"Walter, dear. I know you didn't ask, but I finished your load and brought it up in my hamper. Do you have a place I can put these?" They can both hear her stepping into the hallway. His looks down at her, eyes wide.

"Mrs. Presgrit I am _not_ decent. Just wait by the entry, I'll be there in a moment." He calls out.

"How did she get in?"

Barbara asks, trying to keep a straight face.

"She waters the flowers when I'm away!" he defends, but she's already suppressing giggles into his shoulder.

Jumping out of the shower, he grabs the towel off of the floor and dashes as he wraps it around his waist.

"You're covered in soap dear."

Mrs. Presgrit frets as Walter, hamper in hands, begins to sift and gather the clothing.

"I was in the shower."

"Where's your friend?" The woman's voice is almost deafening, complements of failing hearing-aids.

"She's...around?"

Weight is added to his hamper and he looks down to see a storage container, the scent of sugar drifting into his nose.

"I brought you two cookies for when you're done."

He can feel himself flushing, and hears Barbara's quiet giggles from afar. "How kind."

"You should eat them, You look like a starved dog. All bones." Her aged voice is stern, "I'm cooking a roast tomorrow, you'll come over."

"Yes, Mrs. Presgrit." He mutters, feeling much like a child. "Thank you for everything." He means it, despite the pique. Closing the door behind her, he hears Barbara break, cackles drifting into the hall, and he smirks in the general direction of the bathroom. 

"I've half-a-mind to flush the privy!" He shouts, setting the hamper in his bedroom.

"Don't you dare, Mr. Skin-and-bones!" Her sing-song voice taunts back. "Now get your soapy butt back in here. You're gonna have to _earn_ those cookies."

Ever obedient, the towel falls away, and he makes his way back toward the steam.


End file.
